Once Bitten
by cheride
Summary: The judge is trying to be cautious, and Mark is having a bad day that only gets worse.
1. Default Chapter

_Once Bitten- Cheride_

_Rating: PG_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators. Twinkies don't belong to me, either, though it's possible if I had bought stock instead of snack cakes, I might have a controlling interest by now!_

* * *

Many thanks to my wonderful betas: Susan Z., who offers wonderful thoughts on characterization and motivation; and LM Lewis, who keeps me honest (mostly) on the technical stuff, including important details to remember when surrendering to the authorities. I am better because of them.

* * *

"Hey, McCormick; you up there?"

Mark McCormick groaned as he dragged the blanket up over his head. "He cannot be talking to me," he muttered. He tried to ignore the footsteps he heard clumping up the stairs.

"McCormick? What're you still doing in bed? It's almost eight." Milton Hardcastle's voice transitioned quickly from simply boisterous to loudly annoyed.

"I know it's almost eight," McCormick returned without removing his blanket. "And the reason I know that is because it was barely seven when I finally got to sleep, and I know that can't have been even an hour ago."

"Well, what're you doing staying up all night?" Hardcastle demanded.

McCormick sighed loudly. "It wasn't intentional. I told you last night I didn't feel well. That turned in to not sleeping well, and that has turned in to this. Now could you let me go back to sleep, please?"

Hardcastle resisted the impulse to jerk the blanket off McCormick and demand the young man crawl out of bed. "It was just a little head cold, kid; nothin' to get all whiny about. And, anyway, did you forget we've got a preliminary hearing downtown this morning?"

Under the blanket, McCormick grimaced; he _had_ forgotten. "That's today?"

"Yeah, kiddo, that's today. So get your butt outta that bed."

Finally, the young man pulled the blanket from around his head, then sat up to face the judge. "Can't you just go without me?" he pleaded.

Hardcastle's instinctive "No," came out before he even fully registered the reddish, puffy eyes that stared back at him, or the slightly bleary demeanor that only accompanied those awakened from much needed sleep.

"C'mon, Hardcase. The prosecuting attorney already said he doesn't want my testimony; he's only interested in swearing in the retired judge, not the retired criminal. And you were only dragging me along so you could keep an eye on me, anyway. If I promise to be good, can't you go without me?"

As soon as he said it, McCormick knew that wasn't really fair. In the few weeks since Hardcastle had taken him into his custody, it was already clear that the jurist really was trying to leave the past behind and allow the ex-con the freedom to live up to his end of their rather unusual parole arrangement. But still, there was no need for him to go to the hearing, and he felt like crap.

McCormick gave a small, crooked grin, and tried it without the sarcasm. "Sorry, Judge; I really am tired. But seriously, the D.A. doesn't need me, and I really just need to rest. Are you sure you can't do this alone?"

Hardcastle hesitated as he stared at the lean figure propped against the headboard, bundled up in a blanket. The kid had been closer to the truth than he probably realized with his first smart-mouthed comment; keeping an eye on the ex-convict was precisely what he'd had in mind.

Of course, that wasn't really fair, and he knew it. In the few weeks since they'd begun this partnership, McCormick had shown no signs of betraying the terms of their agreement. On the other hand, he also wasn't the first ex-con at Gull's Way who'd managed to keep his nose clean for three short weeks. Finding someone who could be trusted for the long haul was where the judge seemed to be having the problems. His instincts told him that Mark McCormick was different in many ways—though he hadn't fully identified those differences as yet—and that he could be _the_ _one_, but his instincts had been wrong before.

And so, he had been fully prepared to order McCormick out of bed when he suddenly saw the blanket flung aside as the young man swung his legs onto the floor. His hesitation must have taken longer than he thought.

"Just give me a few minutes," McCormick grumbled, as he began to gather some clothes, and it was then that Hardcastle managed to pinpoint one of the differences: McCormick understood who was in charge. Oh, the young man would argue and wheedle and cajole in hopes of getting his way, but—ultimately—Hardcastle's decisions always stood. The judge wasn't naïve enough to believe that would always be the case, but he liked the idea that McCormick seemed to understand not to push too far, too soon.

"Don't be stupid, McCormick; get your butt back in that bed."

It was hard to know who was more surprised by the words. Hardcastle hadn't really intended to say them, but McCormick surely hadn't expected to hear them.

But through his surprise, and even with his achy head, the young man managed a sincere grin. "I hope you're not joking, Judge, cuz I sure would like to take you up on that."

This time, Hardcastle didn't hesitate. "I'm not joking. Why should I drag you along just to listen to you whine and moan all day? I'll hear enough of that from the defense attorney."

McCormick didn't have to be invited twice, and he was snuggled back under his blanket before Hardcastle finished speaking. "Thanks, Judge."

"You know this means double chores tomorrow?"

"No arguments here, Hardcase, as long as I can sleep today."

Hardcastle snorted as he crossed back to the staircase. "Haven't had a day without arguments yet, kid, so why start now?" He stopped after taking one step down, then turned and met McCormick's eyes. "You know Sarah's off today." He didn't need to say anything else.

"I'll be here, Judge," Mark answered quietly, no trace of anger in his tone. He knew it would be a while before the jurist truly trusted him.

Hardcastle held the other man's gaze for several long seconds, then finally nodded slightly. "Feel better, McCormick," he instructed brusquely, as he resumed his descent, "you've got a lot of work ahead of you tomorrow."

McCormick grinned silently, and he was asleep again before Hardcastle made it to the driveway.


	2. Chapter 2

As Hardcastle navigated the highways toward the courthouse, he tried to push aside the nagging feeling that he was allowing himself to be manipulated. Not that he was a particularly easy man to fool, but he was slowly beginning to believe that if anyone could accomplish that task, it would be Mark McCormick, and that worried him just a little bit.

When he had taken McCormick into his chambers on that fateful day three weeks ago and proposed the unique pact that had caused the ex-con to be paroled into his custody, Hardcastle had been very clear that it was strictly a business proposition; he was not looking for them to be buddies. And yet he had been immediately impressed with the way McCormick's behavior had quietly insisted he be treated as an equal rather than as someone subservient; the judge had never anticipated that. Even more surprising was the infectious nature of the young man's quick grin and easy laugh. On more than one occasion, Hardcastle had found himself enjoying a moment with the other man that could only be described as camaraderie, and each time he had reminded himself that they weren't supposed to be friends.

The problem—as far as Hardcastle was concerned—was that McCormick was not the first felon the judge had taken into his home over the years. He had tried to help rehabilitate a myriad of young men over the years, with varying results. While a few might be considered moderate successes—he hadn't had to lock them up again—most simply had not worked out well, and a couple had been outright disasters. But even though he had been hopeful about them all in the beginning, it hadn't taken him long to become wary of first impressions, and, by the time McCormick came into the picture, he had developed a long standing measure of protection: don't trust them for at least six months. So far, none of them had made it to that milestone.

As he continued through the traffic, Hardcastle reflected that he had established a perfectly logical approach to the entire situation, so why was he straying from that approach now? Why was he pulled in by the charm of this latest con man? Why did he have to keep reminding himself to keep his distance? Why was he consumed with the idea that this one was different?

"I don't know," he said aloud, answering his own unspoken questions, "but I gotta get over it. McCormick's just like all the others—he's after what's in it for him."

He chuckled slightly. _Gotta stop talking to myself, too_, he thought. _Retirement must be makin' me batty already. Of course, McCormick would probably blame it on the_ _peanuts._

Alone in the truck, he grinned at his latest thought, then quickly decided he'd done more than enough thinking about Mark McCormick for one morning. He reached out and flipped on the radio, letting the jazz pour over him and drown out all the confusing thoughts about his latest ex-con in residence.

* * *

"Aldo's a weasel," Hardcastle grouched to the D.A. as they stood outside the courtroom, drinking too strong coffee. "It took me and McCormick about a day and a half to bust open his extortion business, he was so careless, and now he wants to pretend all that evidence doesn't exist. Bah!"

Gordon Levitt, the junior assistant district attorney assigned to handle today's hearing, just smiled. "It's okay, Judge. The evidence is solid. Weaseling is just what they do when they're caught."

The judge stared at the earnest young face before him. Was this kid—who looked like he was all of about twelve—honestly trying to tell him how criminals reacted under pressure? That was funnier than the weasel act he'd been watching all morning.

"I know how the game is played, Mr. Levitt," he assured the A.D.A. calmly. "And I know we'll keep playing this little cat and mouse routine all day at this rate. His attorney, Phillips, is inventive; I'll give him that. I've never seen someone cross so many witnesses at a prelim.

"You really should've included McCormick in this little show; it would've been fun to watch him just eat that Phillips fellow alive. The kid's really not too keen on games." Hardcastle grinned as he thought of how that particular cross-examination might've played out.

"Well…" Levitt was suddenly uncomfortable.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I understand you didn't want to risk having an impeachable witness when it wasn't necessary. McCormick didn't have any information I didn't have, and his testimony wouldn't have advanced the case. I got it. I'm just sayin' it would've been amusing.

"But, listen, I gotta use the phone before we get going again." He strolled down the hallway to the nearest pay phone.

Hardcastle paused before dialing, considering his motives. His conscious thought had been to call and check on how McCormick was feeling, but he could be honest with himself and admit he really just wanted to call and check on McCormick. But what did he think he'd find? The kid obviously hadn't been feeling well this morning, so why believe anything other than he intended to sleep the day away? And anyway, the kid's monster sports car, the Coyote, was in the body shop having a couple of quarter panels replaced, so it's not like he had a way to go anywhere, even if he wanted to. _He's a car thief_, Hardcastle's mind immediately reminded him; _transportation isn't likely to be a problem._

Even so, the judge remembered how upset McCormick had been up in San Francisco when the Coyote had gotten damaged. He had almost become more concerned with that than he had been with catching the bad guys, and as soon as they had returned to L.A., the kid had insisted they find a garage and get the repairs under way. Surely he wouldn't take off and leave the car? _The car's traceable_, his mind chimed in again. _Would make more sense to leave it behind._

Hardcastle shook his head and decided on a compromise. It had only been a few hours since he'd left the estate, so it was likely McCormick wasn't even out of bed yet. If not, he didn't want to wake him. But if he was up, it was a safe bet the kid wouldn't be far from the kitchen or the pool, no matter how bad he was feeling. So, the judge dialed the number to the main house rather than McCormick's private number at the gatehouse, and let it ring until the answering machine finally picked up. Then he slammed down the phone, disgusted. All that thinking and debating, and he still didn't have any more information than he had five minutes ago. He reached for the phone again, intending to call the gatehouse after all, but he stopped himself. He really didn't want to disturb the kid, and he sure as hell didn't want to try and explain to a grumpy McCormick that he was just calling to check up on him. And, even if there was no answer, that wouldn't prove anything definitively, and he would be left here to worry and wonder all afternoon.

_Besides_, he told himself, _you're just being paranoid. There's no reason to think he's gonna take off. _

_No_, another part of his brain responded, _no reason at all. Just experience._


	3. Chapter 3

"Ohhh, man," McCormick groaned as he slowly opened his eyes. The sunlight was blinding, even filtered through the curtains. He thought he should just pull the blanket up over his head again and go back to sleep, but he knew immediately that wasn't going to be possible. He was just beginning to realize that he was thirsty, which made him realize that it wasn't going to be long before he would have to force himself to stumble to the bathroom. And on top of all that, apparently a marching band had taken up residence inside his head. McCormick figured he had probably felt worse at some point, but he sure as hell couldn't remember when.

After a while, he pushed the coverings off himself and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took a moment to be certain the drum major in his brain had slowed his group from the double-time march, then stood and started shakily for the stairs, grabbing pants and a shirt as he went. The first step down jarred him so badly his teeth hurt, and he clasped his head between his hands. "Shit!" He thought his head might explode as he continued downstairs and toward the bathroom. He remembered gulping down a few aspirin sometime during the previous long night, though he had been pretty sure they wouldn't help much. There was little consolation in discovering he'd been correct.

After relieving himself, and washing up just a bit, McCormick was considering more aspirin; surely some relief would be better than his current misery. What he really needed, though, was something stronger; something that might alleviate some of his all over aches and pains. He thought he would even settle for something that might at least open up his sinuses just a bit before the pressure caused his brains to start oozing out of his ears. Hardcastle probably had something, but the main house seemed worlds away. Maybe he would go over later.

He shuffled over to the small refrigerator, looking forward to a glass of cold orange juice, only to discover that the fridge contained only two cans of beer and half a jug of sour milk. "Ugh." With a heavy sigh, he faced the inevitable: he would have to go to the house.

"In just a minute," he muttered to himself, dropping onto the sofa. He wasn't even aware when he drifted back to sleep.

When he awoke the next time, McCormick thought briefly that he might actually feel better, but when he sat up fully, he realized his decision had been hasty. The sleep had helped, but he was definitely going to have to make the trek to Hardcastle's house and find some kind of medicine. And he still wanted some orange juice.

Stifling the curses running through his head, he pushed himself off the sofa and crossed back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and get himself as energized as possible. As he came back into the living area, he stooped to pick up the closest pair of sneakers—thankful that he wasn't the kind to always leave his shoes where they belonged—and pulled them on over his bare feet. He would make a quick trip to the main house to raid the fridge and the medicine cabinet, then he would be right back here and snuggled into his bed in fifteen minutes. That was a plan he could live with.

He paused only long enough to grab his sunglasses, then ventured outside. As he trudged across the lawn, he wondered briefly just what he had done to cause his life to suddenly seem so cursed: sentenced to a life of playing Tonto to an insane Lone Ranger, chasing after bad guys for the last two and a half weeks, and now, one wrong move, and his head was probably going to explode all over Hardcastle's manicured estate. It was unlikely things could get worse.

But almost half an hour later, things were definitely worse. McCormick had inhaled the single swallow of juice that remained in the house, and he had searched every cabinet and drawer in the judge's home only to find that Hardcastle was apparently not a big believer in stocking the medicine cabinet. "Aren't old people supposed to need medicine?" he grumbled, then immediately chuckled at the thought. He had to admit, for an old guy, Hardcastle was pretty well preserved.

He gave a final look around the master bath, then left Hardcastle's bedroom, and gingerly began to descend the steps, considering options as he walked. By the time he reached the first floor, McCormick had decided to make a quick run to the store. The judge probably wouldn't be pleased to find out about the unauthorized excursion, but he thought Hardcastle would ultimately understand. But by the time he reached the front porch, he had remembered his car was in the shop. "Dammit!"

When faced with the option of either walking approximately ten miles to the nearest market or simply swallowing a few more aspirin and crawling back in bed, the aspirin suddenly seemed a beautiful prospect, so he continued toward the gatehouse.

He paused at the garage as another option entered his mind. He could drive Hardcastle's clunker of a truck, if the judge had taken the Corvette this morning. _And why wouldn't he?_ McCormick reasoned. If not for the stabbing pain the sunlight was causing, he would've considered it a beautiful day. _Perfect weather for the 'Vette._ He stepped up the driveway, raised the overhead door, and stared at the classic Chevrolet sports car sitting in its usual place. "Dammit again!" he swore under his breath, immediately lowering the garage door. "Can I _not_ catch a break here?"

Oh well. The judge would be home in a few more hours and he could take the truck to the market then. In the meantime, half a dozen aspirin should hold his head together. McCormick had reached the gatehouse before he became aware of the thought that had taken up residence and was screaming for attention.

"_Take the 'Vette. Take the 'Vette."_

He managed to completely disregard the traitorous thought long enough to ascend the first two steps back to his bedroom, but then he paused, considering. He could be there and back in half an hour, tops; what could be the harm?

"Because you're not supposed to leave, and you are **_not_** supposed to drive the 'Vette," he chided himself aloud. In fact, the last time he had mentioned the car to the judge, McCormick had decided that touching that prized automobile might just be the quickest path back to Quentin imaginable. He took one more step up before the flash of temper overrode his good sense.

_Dammit, I'm not a kid!_ "And I'm not supposed to be a prisoner anymore, either," he said, as he turned back to return to the garage.


	4. Chapter 4

McCormick waited impatiently as the cashier helped the people at the front of the line. Though the trip to the market had been uneventful, he had found himself driving at a ridiculously conservative speed, causing the drive to seem unbearably long. Arriving at the store, he had quickly gone in and grabbed two jugs of his favorite orange juice, but then had been almost stymied by the drug aisle. Typically not one for medication, McCormick didn't have a lot of experience choosing, and he spent several minutes studying the various products, trying to match symptoms with treatment. _Fever?_ Maybe, a little. _Cough?_ Nah. _Sore_ _throat?_ Yep. _Aches_ _and_ _pains?_ Damn straight. Finally reminding himself what a monumentally bad scene it was going to be if the judge returned home first, he threw three different boxes—_better safe than sorry_— into his basket and headed for the registers.

Now he waited as four more customers stood between him and a speedy exit. He was trying hard not to fidget, but he wished they would just hurry it up already. To occupy his time, he scanned the people in the store. The cashier seemed polite enough, but bored. The others in line seemed almost as impatient as he was as they sorted their coupons and pre-filled their checks.

Inside the small customer service booth, a young manager type was deep in conversation with an even younger clerk type. Passing through the main aisle, a young mother was extolling the virtues of fresh fruit, while her little girl cheerily explained why Twinkies were better. McCormick grinned at the exchange and let his eyes continue around the store as he moved up one place in line.

But the grin vanished from his face as his eyes fell on the man who had entered the store just seconds earlier. Dressed in faded jeans, a plain white shirt, and a green army jacket that was much too heavy for the weather, the man practically screamed trouble.

McCormick continued to watch the other man discreetly from behind his sunglasses, not liking the way the man never removed his hand from his pocket, or the way the dark brown eyes darted quickly around the store. He watched until the other man wandered aimlessly down one of the aisles, then McCormick walked nonchalantly to the customer service booth.

"Excuse me." McCormick leaned his head far inside the window so he wouldn't have to speak loudly.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked, irritated.

"Do you guys have a silent alarm?" That got both employees' attention.

The manager spoke up. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes," McCormick answered succinctly. "An armed man just came into this store. He's walking the aisles, most likely trying to determine how many people are inside. We need to get as many people out of here as we can, and if you have an alarm, this would be an excellent time to use it."

The store clerk stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or run for his life, but the manager had questions. "How do you know this?" he demanded. "Are you a police officer?"

A lie would've been so simple, but McCormick opted for an incomplete truth. "No. But I work with a judge. Trust me, I know a criminal when I see one.

"Now, I'm going to try and get those people at the register out of here; you two need to discreetly go through and round up any other employees and customers and get them out of here." McCormick's tone left no room for argument, and he returned to his place in line, still carrying his basket in order to maintain appearances. He was relieved to see that all but one of the other customers in the line had departed, but another woman was approaching the counter just as he returned.

"After you," he said with a smile.

"Thanks."

McCormick stepped in to line behind her, then leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"Please move forward."

Startled, she jumped slightly, but his tone was reassuring.

"It's okay, but I can't talk loudly. Please move up, so we can all talk at once."

Hesitantly, the woman stepped forward until she was standing right next to the gentleman checking his groceries.

McCormick moved in behind them and spoke quickly. "This store is about to be robbed. There is a man in the back somewhere with a gun, and I need you three to leave here quickly and quietly." He met the cashier's eyes. "When you leave, please call the police and ask them to send a car. I think your manager already sounded the alarm, but I'd like to be sure, okay?" She nodded wordlessly, fear in her eyes.

McCormick glanced quickly down the main aisle to ensure the gunman hadn't returned, then jerked his head toward the door. "Okay, go. Don't run, but get out of here."

The customers started immediately for the door, but the cashier hesitated. "What about you? And the others?"

McCormick smiled slightly. "We'll be okay. We're gonna keep things under control until the cops show up. Now go on; I need you to make that call."

The cashier nodded again and turned to go. McCormick watched with relief as the three cleared the doorway, but he wondered why he hadn't seen anyone else leaving. And where was the would-be robber? He hadn't seen the guy since he disappeared down the bread aisle. As he examined the front area, he saw the manager come back into view, herding the mother and little girl.

"I sent the employees out the back," the manager said as he approached McCormick, "and a few customers, too. I saw the guy; he was between us and the back by the time I found these two. I think everyone else is out."

"Good," McCormick replied tersely. "Then let's get the hell out of here."

"What about the store?" the manager asked. "The money?"

"What about it?" McCormick snapped. "That's what insurance is for. We need to get out of here. Where was that guy, anyway?" He started the other three moving toward the doors. "I haven't seen him since before I talked to you the first time."

Almost as if in answer to his question, McCormick felt a sudden jab in his lower back.

"Never mind. I think we found him."

The manager and the mother both whirled around at McCormick's words, the mother pulling her daughter behind her back.

"Are you lookin' for me, man?"

McCormick turned carefully to face the voice. "As a matter of fact," he said slowly, taking in the anxious appearance of the young man, "I was." He looked more closely at the man holding the gun. Man? Hell; he was practically a kid.

McCormick continued with his slow, calming speech. "I was wondering where you were and what you might be planning." He paused. "What _are_ you planning?"

The gunman barked out a harsh chuckle. "What'm I planning? Whaddaya think? I'm gonna get some cash." He looked around nervously, as if he was expecting someone to contradict him. "What's it to you, anyway?"

"I'm the one at the wrong end of the gun," McCormick pointed out reasonably.

Another harsh laugh. "Yeah, I guess you are, at that."

"Well, look," McCormick began in the same reasonable tone, "we don't have a lot of time here. The cops have already been called, and they'll be here any minute. So unless you're ready to spend some serious time behind bars, I think we oughta get this over with." He glanced behind him. "You wanna start with the registers?"

The manager, content up to now to let McCormick do the talking, finally spoke up. "Are you crazy? I'm responsible for this place."

"Shut up," McCormick instructed with a glare. "What you're responsible for is making sure this store doesn't end up plastered all over the evening news with a caption like _Murder at the Market_. Money can always be replaced."

"I'm beginning to think you two are working together," the manager accused.

McCormick sighed deeply. If he hadn't already had a headache, he would certainly have one now. "Think anything you want, but quit distracting the man with the gun. Let him take his money and get out." McCormick redirected his comments to the robber. "Go on. Get your cash and go."

The gunman hesitated, looking around nervously again. This was not going exactly as he'd planned.

_Jeez_, McCormick thought, _he's new at this._ Aloud he said, "How about if we all sit down right here so you can keep an eye on us?"

"Yeah, okay; that seems like a good idea." The guy waited until McCormick had encouraged the other three to the floor, then backed slowly to the nearest register. There were only three of them, so McCormick thought it shouldn't take too long. Then this nightmare would be over and he could go back home. He had watched the kid shove bills from one register into his pocket when he heard the words that let him know that home was still a long ways away.

"People inside the Lancaster Market. This is the Sheriff's Department. What is your situation?"

McCormick groaned as he dropped his head into his hands. His only thought was that he really should not have taken the 'Vette.


	5. Chapter 5

Normally, Hardcastle would have been more mindful of the speed limit. The PCH really wasn't a very forgiving roadway, and he was well aware of its dangers, but it had been a very long day. The unanswered phone call at the morningrecess had only tickled the back of his suspicions. And, even at lunch, when the main house still didn't answer, he had managed to refrain from calling the gatehouse. He had reasoned that six hours really wasn't even a full night's sleep, and that was if you weren't sick, so he had ignored the growing tickle. But Aldo's attorney could drag things out like no one he'd ever seen, and by the time they had taken an afternoon break, he needed to be convinced the kid was still where he belonged. He had called the gatehouse first, then the main house, but the result was the same. No McCormick.

Before they had reconvened that last time, Hardcastle had been in no mood for games and had instructed Levitt to call him to the stand or else. Ordinarily, he would've enjoyed watching Aldo's weasely attorney waste however much time he wanted with the string of witnesses—though he would've never allowed it in his own court—because it helped them better understand the case the defense was building. But now he needed to get home; he needed to find McCormick.

It had taken only a few questions for Phillips to realize that the judge was not going to be the weak link in this case, and he had ended his questioning. Levitt had already been advised that he better **_not_** have any follow-up questions, and so they were done. Hardcastle had called the estate one last time before leaving the building, though, by that point, he had no expectation that the phone would be answered. He wasn't happy about being correct.

His anger was about to explode as he pulled up in front of the house, and he was out of the truck the instant he had slammed it into park. He barreled into the house, shouting for McCormick, but it was instantly clear that the house was empty. Without bothering to close the door behind him, Hardcastle stormed across the lawn to the gatehouse.

"McCormick!" He shouted the ex-con's name as he pushed open the door, but silence was his only answer. He rushed up the stairs, though he knew what he would find. He wasn't surprised to see the empty bed, but he was surprised to feel the strong disappointment and sadness that came over him. Somehow, he had really believed McCormick would be different.

With a sinking heart, he descended the stairs and trudged slowly to the garage, though he knew there would be no surprise there, either. He raised the door, stared sadly for a moment at the empty space, then stalked into the house to issue the A.P.B. on Mark McCormick.


	6. Chapter 6

McCormick stared across at the terrified face of their captor. From the moment the police had arrived, things had become just a little bit strange. The gunman had originally responded by nervously pacing up and down the aisle in front of the registers. He had locked the doors, but beyond that, pacing seemed to be the only thing on his mind, though at one point he had yelled, "Shut up and leave me alone!" as if he thought the cops could actually hear him outside.

After who knew how many minutes of the frantic pacing, McCormick had watched the other man resort to kicking the panels between the cashier lanes to vent his frustration.

Then the muttering began. McCormick wasn't able to make out many of the mumbled words, but the general theme seemed to be 'Nothing ever goes the way I planned; I can't do anything right'.

_I know just how you feel, buddy_, McCormick thought as he glanced at his watch. If Hardcastle wasn't home yet, he would be soon, and God only knew what might happen then. He looked over at the other hostages. They'd been holding it together pretty well, but they were terrified, too. Especially the mom, who was walking that thin line of being scared _for_ the child but not wanting to _scare_ the child. All this pacing and muttering was just making things harder on everybody.

Finally, McCormick could stand it no longer. "Hey, buddy. Why don't you come over here and sit down for a minute and try to figure out the best way out of this thing?"

Mark watched as the other appeared to consider the offer, then he spoke again. "You know, I came here today because I've got this massive head cold thing going on. If you don't mind, I'm gonna go ahead and take some of this stuff and see if I can't feel better." He indicated the small basket of merchandise next to him, and waited for the gunman to object.

When the objection never came, McCormick reached slowly into the basket and chose a medicine. He popped a couple of pills from their packaging and tossed them into his mouth, then opened the juice and swigged from the bottle. As he replaced the lid and returned the juice to his basket, he glanced at the store manager. "Run a tab for me," he said lightly.

"You're awfully glib about this," the manager whispered under his breath.

McCormick opened his mouth to respond, but the mother beat him to the punch. "Will you leave him alone?" she hissed at the manager. "Can't you see he's trying to calm that guy down?"

McCormick smiled slightly. At least one of them understood. And she was doing a pretty good job of keeping the little girl calm, too. He looked back at their captor, pleased to see that the rage had stopped. He gestured to the floor in front of them.

"C'mon. We all want this to end well. Sit with us."

The young man hesitated a moment longer, then finally crossed to the open area where the others were sitting. He kept several paces away—out of easy reach—then lowered himself to the floor. "I'm still watching you," he said, waving his gun in McCormick's direction.

The curly head nodded slowly. "I know. No one's going to try anything here; we all just want to work this out." McCormick paused, then asked, "This isn't what you intended, is it?"

The other man glared back at McCormick, but there was a fear and confusion in his eyes that couldn't be hidden. "No," he admitted after a moment, "it isn't."

McCormick nodded again, knowingly. "Yeah, sometimes things just don't work out like you planned." He waited another moment. "What's your name, anyway?" When he didn't receive an answer, McCormick added, "I'm Mark." He jerked his thumb at the other prisoners, "And these folks…" he looked at them expectantly.

"Greg," the manager chimed in, though clearly not happy about it.

"And I'm Connie," the young woman said.

"My name's Lucy," the little girl said happily, seeming to understand what was expected.

McCormick smiled and turned back to the robber, waiting.

"Brandon," the young man finally said. "My name's Brandon."

"Okay. Good. Now we all know each other. So, Brandon, what's your plan for what happens next?"

Brandon's eyes darted around the store again, and McCormick was reminded how scared the gunman was. _He's just a kid._

"Never mind," Mark continued, never losing his calm tone, "you don't need a plan right away; we've got time. Why don't you tell me a little bit about why you're here? What happened? I mean, you don't strike me as the kind of guy who just sticks up a grocery store on a whim."

Brandon looked at him suspiciously. "What do you think you know about me? He demanded. "And what's it to you, anyway?"

McCormick shook his head, wincing slightly at the pain the movement caused—_when will that medicine kick in?_—and focused on radiating calmness. "I don't know anything about you unless you tell me, Brandon. But like I said before, we all want this to end well. Why are you here?"

"I need money," Brandon answered quietly. "I haven't been able to get a job since I-" he broke off for a moment, then spat out the words, "since I got out of prison."

"That can be hard," McCormick replied sincerely. "Do you have a P.O.?"

Brandon looked at him quizzically. "No; I did my time. Eighteen long months. Paid my debt, as they say. But it hasn't mattered; soon as they see my record on a job application, it's all over. It sucks." The young man seemed much more sad than angry.

McCormick glanced over at his fellow captives, and wasn't surprised to see their incredulous stares. He'd seen that look himself, a thousand different times: can you believe this _criminal_ is complaining about his lot in life? He recognized Brandon's despair. "What was the beef?" he asked gently.

Again the questioning look from Brandon, but the young man answered the question. "It was drugs. But," he added quickly, "it was a bum deal."

"Yeah, I know the feeling." McCormick took a breath and considered his options. He very much needed Greg and Connie to maintain whatever level of trust in him they had, just in case he had to direct them through some insane escape attempt. On the other hand, if he could gain Brandon's trust, maybe no crazy escape would be necessary. Finally, he spoke.

"For me, it was GTA, and it was very definitely a bum deal."

"You've been inside?" Brandon didn't seem convinced.

McCormick nodded. "I'm on parole now; got another two and a half years to go."

"You're on parole?" Greg exclaimed. "I thought you worked-" the sudden vicious glare he received from McCormick caused him to fumble over his final words. "…around here." He put it together. "I thought you worked around here?"

"Yeah, I do," McCormick agreed, relieved. This did not seem like the right time to mention a judge. He turned his attention back to the kid; it was time to get serious.

"Look, Brandon, the cops are already outside, and they've already tried calling. That phone's gonna ring again any minute now, and you're going to have to answer it sometime. You gotta start thinking about how you're gonna play this out.

"You know, those eighteen months inside might've been a bum rap, and the things that've happened since might've been out of your control. But what happens next is up to you. It's time to make a plan."

Brandon examined McCormick closely, gauging his sincerity, but the gun never wavered. "I don't know, man. Nothin' works out right for me. Maybe I'll just wait right here until the cops storm this place and put me out of my misery."

From the corner of his eye, McCormick saw Connie gather Lucy into her arms, a new fear on her face. But he didn't have time to offer comfort now; his focus had to remain on Brandon.

Mark shrugged. "I've felt the things you're feeling, Brandon, so I won't waste a lot of time telling you how nothing is as bad as it seems. Things can get better, but that's something you have to realize on your own. If you want, I can help you. I have a pretty decent P.O.; his name is Milt, and he knows a lot of people. If you want help, if you want to make things better, he can find a way to help. But, I gotta tell you, sitting here in a grocery store pointing a gun at hostages sort of limits your options."

Brandon's face hardened. "You're just trying to get me to let you go," he said harshly. "I bet you've been lying to me about everything." Suddenly, he was raising the gun level with McCormick's face, steadying the weapon with both hands. "Maybe I'll just kill you all instead, starting with you."

Mark swallowed hard, but forced his eyes to stay on Brandon's face. "I haven't lied, Brandon, and I'm not asking you to let us all go. But when the cops call, I do think you need to be prepared to hold them off for a while, so you have more time to think." He took a breath, making sure the time was right, then continued, "You should release Connie and Lucy. That will slow them down, and you and I can talk some more."

The gun lowered gradually, and Mark slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. _Something wrong with being glad to have a gun pointed at your gut,_ he thought ruefully. He was waiting for Brandon to speak when the phone rang, causing them all to jump slightly. He resisted the temptation to jump across the small opening; Brandon wasn't that distracted.

The phone was on its third ring when Brandon finally said, "You answer it," gesturing with the gun toward McCormick.

Mark rose carefully and moved toward the customer service booth.

"There's a mobile phone in there," Greg offered.

Mark nodded as he pushed open the door to the small area. He spied the phone and grabbed it from its charger base. "Hello?"

A deep, authoritative voice spoke immediately into the line. "Hello. This is Deputy Marsten with the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. Who am I speaking with please?"

McCormick smiled slightly at the proper phrasing. _Must be what the teach 'em in Hostage Situations 101._ "This is Mark McCormick."

"Mr. McCormick, what's the situation in there?"

"There are three of us in here, Deputy Marsten, being held by one man named Brandon." He moved cautiously back to his spot in the group, and lowered himself to the floor. Brandon had also risen from his seated position while Mark was away, so there was no real opportunity to tackle the young man. _Not as careless as he seems._

"Is anyone hurt?"

"No."

"Does this Brandon character have any terms for surrender?"

"Not yet."

"Could I speak with him?"

"Hang on." McCormick offered the phone toward Brandon. "He wants to talk to you."

The younger man shook his head. "You talk. What does he want?"

McCormick shrugged. "Right now he's wondering if you have any demands."

Brandon actually laughed. "Demands? Is he willing to send everybody home and let me slip out of here?"

"You might want to start with something smaller," McCormick grinned.

"You tell him something."

"What about the girls?" McCormick prodded.

"I don't know…"

"Brandon," McCormick began in his most convincing tone, "this is the right thing to do. You don't need all of us, and if you let them go, the cops will understand you're willing to be reasonable. And, if you let me get my P.O. in this for you, he'll like the idea that you released some of the hostages."

Brandon considered the comment, but he wasn't quite convinced. "Maybe a little later. I wanna talk to you about this P.O. Hang up now."

McCormick knew better than to argue. He placed the phone back to his ear. "He doesn't want to talk right now."

"I heard you talking about your P.O., McCormick."

_Good; glad you're paying attention._

"We'll try and find him."

"Yeah. You need to give us some time; okay?"

"Okay," Marsten agreed. "We'll call again in about fifteen minutes. If you need us, just pick up the phone."

"'Kay; got it." McCormick clicked off the phone. "Your move," he said, looking at Brandon expectantly.


	7. Chapter 7

Hardcastle rose from his seat in the den and stalked into the kitchen. After prowling around in there for a few minutes—opening cabinet doors, looking for nothing in particular—he settled for pouring himself a glass of cold water. He took a single drink, then carried the glass back to the den. Seating himself again, he placed the water on his desk, next to the soda and bag of pretzels his previous forays had provided. The desk was also littered with half a dozen file folders, obtained when his nervous energy had directed him toward the basement rather than the kitchen. All of it went untouched, sitting in precisely whatever spot the judge had placed them upon his return.

He shook his head slightly. He didn't want to eat; he didn't want to work on a case. And he certainly didn't want to sit here waiting on a phone call to bring news of his latest errant ex-convict. What he _wanted_ was to prowl the highways and byways of Southern California until he found the ungrateful thief. And then he wanted to personally throw McCormick into a prison cell and hear the satisfying sound of steel bars meshing with concrete walls, locking his latest failure away from the world. He almost even wanted to hear the worthless excuses and pleas for 'one more chance'. Almost.

It was actually the thought of those final moments that kept him here in his home rather than out in the hunt. Because he knew in his heart that—this time—he would want to believe the excuses; he would want to grant that last chance. He couldn't say why that would be the case, but that didn't make him any less sure that it would be so. But he did not intend to be made a fool of again.

_Why?_ His mind raged the question. But there was so much more behind that single, excruciating word.

Why would he be drawn to the lies of _this_ felon? Why did he have the unusual sadness in his heart this time, mingled with his outrage? Why was today the day, after several successful cases and almost three full weeks of partnership? Really, though, Hardcastle thought all his thoughts boiled down to just two questions:

Why had McCormick run? And, why did he care?

Without a single answer, he rose from his seat and headed back toward the kitchen.


	8. Chapter 8

"The thing is, Lucy," McCormick was saying to the attentive little girl, "fruit helps you grow up big and strong." He popped a green grape into his mouth. The child had been hungry, and Brandon had allowed the ex-con to go get a snack, but Connie's choice of snack food wasn't going over so well with Lucy.

"So what?" the five year old demanded, ignoring the grapes McCormick offered.

"So what?" McCormick pretended amazement. "_So what?_ I guess no one has ever told you the very best thing about being a grown up?"

Lucy was intrigued. "What?"

Mark leaned down to whisper loudly in her ear. "You get to eat Twinkies whenever you want." He grinned as her eyes widened in wonder, then she pulled the grapes to her, eating quickly.

Behind her daughter, Connie smiled at McCormick. "Thank you," she mouthed silently. He simply winked at her, and ate another grape. Even Greg appeared amused by the exchange, and Mark was glad to see that he finally seemed to be coming down off his high horse. If it weren't for the crazy kid with the gun, it would've been a good moment.

"So tell me more about this Parole Officer of yours," Brandon said suddenly, breaking into McCormick's thoughts.

Mark tried not to sigh. "What do you want to know, Brandon? I think I've told you everything I can think of."

"I don't understand why you think he can help. You really can't trust most of the people in the system, ya know."

"Yeah, I do know," McCormick nodded, "but-" He hesitated, suddenly unsure.

"But what?" Brandon insisted after a moment.

McCormick shrugged. "I don't know, man; he's just different somehow. It's like he really thinks—_believes_—that the system works; that the right thing happens in the end. And when it doesn't seem to be working out that way, he tries to do something about it." He shrugged again. "It's kinda crazy, really; he still believes in the good guys."

McCormick wondered briefly how much of what he was saying was for Brandon's sake and how much he honestly believed, but he couldn't spare the time to figure it out. He had to keep talking while he had the kid's attention. "The thing is, Brandon, he can do a lot, but he can't work miracles. Holding hostages at gunpoint isn't doing you one bit of good; you gotta give 'em something." He looked meaningfully toward Connie and Lucy.

Brandon watched Mark closely. "Can he get me out of this?"

McCormick held his gaze. "No," he said evenly, "it's gone too far. But he can help after."

After what seemed an eternity, Brandon nodded. "Okay. I'll let the girls go; you get that cowboy friend of yours on the phone."

McCormick smiled as he watched Connie hug her daughter close, and he picked up the phone.

"Marsten? Listen, a couple of people are going to be coming out; a woman and her daughter. Give me about two minutes-" he glanced quickly at Brandon for confirmation, then returned to the phone, "and then have your guys ready. They're the only ones coming out right now, okay?"

"Okay, I got it. What else?"

"I want to talk to my P.O. Can you make that happen?"

"Yeah, we're working on it right now. And, listen…I don't know if I should be tellin' you this, but I don't figure we can get through this without being honest with each other."

McCormick didn't like the sound of that. "Seems reasonable, Deputy," he said slowly, "what is it?"

"When we ran your background earlier…seems there's been a warrant issued for you; flight from custody and grand theft auto."

The ex-con groaned, and shook his head slowly. _Really should've seen that coming._ "It's a misunderstanding," he said dully. "I sorta missed an appointment today."

"You sure there's nothing else you need to talk about, McCormick? I need to know what I'm dealing with in there."

Slowly rubbing his temple, McCormick forced himself to remain calm. _One crisis at a time._ "No, Deputy; nothing else. This is all happening exactly as I've said. Now if you're ready out there, I'm sending you a couple of people." He waited a second for any further questions or objections, then clicked the line closed.

He looked back at Brandon. "Looks like you're not the only one havin' a bad day."


	9. Chapter 9

The phone rang only minutes before the knock sounded at the door. Hardcastle had barely had time to register Mike Delaney's words about the Corvette at a local market; he certainly hadn't wrapped his mind around whatever the detective had said about a hostage situation.

Looking out the window, the judge muttered, "A unit's here now; I'll talk to you later," and hung up the phone.

"Judge Hardcastle?" asked the uniformed officer standing on the porch as Hardcastle threw open the door.

"Yeah. This is about McCormick, right?"

The officer recoiled slightly at the growl. "Um, yes, sir. The officer in charge thought you might be able to help."

"Let's go." Hardcastle slammed the door and pushed past the officer to the waiting patrol car.

The seething jurist had barely had time to work up a good muttered tirade when the black and white pulled into the parking lot. "This is the place?" Hardcastle asked, amazed. _Damn fool kid. Doesn't even know enough to leave the neighborhood before he starts sticking up the stores?_ He climbed out of the car and stomped toward the command post without waiting for his escort.

An older officer turned at the sound of the approach. "Judge Hardcastle? I'm Deputy Marsten. I'm sorry to have to drag you into this, but McCormick is asking to talk to you."

A response died on Hardcastle's lips. He would've expected to be the last person McCormick would want to talk to. "He _wants_ to talk to me?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, holding out a phone. "We've got a direct line; just hit the dial button to call him."

"I'll talk some sense into him," Hardcastle snarled. "And if that doesn't work, I'll go in myself and beat some sense into him." He reached for the phone. "Let me have that."

But Marsten withdrew the phone quickly. "Uh, Judge," he began hesitantly, "I think you might've gotten the wrong idea. McCormick isn't the perp here; he's a hostage."

Hardcastle suddenly felt as if the world was a much smaller place as everything seemed to close in on him, making it hard to even breathe. After a moment, he forced himself to draw in a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts. "What?" He recognized that he didn't quite succeed, but he figured it was a place to start. He saw Marsten nod slowly.

"Yes, sir. He's doing the talking for some punk named Brandon. According to that witness over there, McCormick's the only thing keeping the balance."

Hardcastle's gaze followed the officer's pointing finger over to where Connie sat, speaking with a pair of uniformed officers. Without comment, he marched across the lot to join them.

"Ma'am?" He ignored the officers' pointed glares; courtesy was low on his priority list right now. "I need to talk to McCormick in there, but I'd like to ask you a couple of questions first."

Connie nodded. "Okay, if it will help."

"There's only one robber in there?"

Another nod. "A young man, maybe 22, 23, said his name was Brandon."

"No one else?" Hardcastle pressed.

"No. The store manager, um, Greg, and Mark. That's all."

"And why were you released?"

"Mark," Connie said simply. "He convinced Brandon to let us go."

"Us?" the judge clarified.

"My daughter and myself," she pointed to one of the folding tables that had been set up for the duration, indicating Lucy, who was happily munching on her grapes. "Mark said it would be better for Brandon, make it seem like he could be reasonable."

"I don't understand why this guy is listening to McCormick."

Connie shrugged. "I think maybe because he's been in prison. It's like something they have in common, and Brandon feels like he can trust Mark."

Hardcastle asked the question on his mind. "Is it possible they're working this together? That somehow things went wrong and McCormick's trying to push it off on this other kid?"

Connie's eyes widened in surprise and her lips drew together in an angry line. "No. It's not like that at all. You'd know if you'd been in there. Mark's trying to help this guy, but not because they're partners or something, but just because…" She hesitated a moment. "Well, I'm not exactly sure why. I think maybe because someone helped him. He wants Brandon to talk to some guy named Milt. He thinks he can help."

Hardcastle unconsciously took a step back and stared silently at the young woman. If asked, he would probably honestly say that her words could very well be the last thing in the world that he had expected to hear.

Instinctively, part of his brain wanted to dismiss the statement as the ramblings of a frightened woman taken in by McCormick's rather obvious charm. But just as intuitively, the more judicial part of his brain evaluated the witness, her demeanor, and her statements, and found the testimony to be truthful. He shook his head slowly and pulled himself back to the conversation.

"Maybe I should start again. I'm Milton Hardcastle, and I'm just trying to understand as much as I can about what's going on inside."

The change in the woman's manner was striking. Smiling, she rose from her seat to take his extended hand. "I'm Connie Eatmon. I'm so glad you're here. Mark probably saved my life, you know, and my little girl, too. I'm glad you're here to help him."

"I'm not sure what he's said, or who you think I am…"

"You're his parole officer, right?" Hardcastle nodded once—that was as good a designation as any—and Connie continued, "He told Brandon you could help, that you could be trusted. Brandon is almost convinced, I think."

Hardcastle had heard enough. "Thank you for the information, Miss Eatmon. You've been very helpful." He turned to go, but waited when Connie called his name.

"I haven't had a chance to thank him," she said sincerely. "Please get him out."

"I will," Hardcastle promised, surprising himself with the intensity of his conviction, then he strode purposefully back toward Marsten at the command center.

"Okay," he growled at the officer, "give me the phone and let's get this thing going. We need to get McCormick out of there."

Marsten nodded and handed over the phone. "Just keep in mind, Judge, everything seems to be on a first name basis in there. That may not be important, but McCormick has only ever asked for Milt."

Hardcastle nodded, understanding immediately. Without knowing who they were dealing with in there, McCormick had no way to know if the Hardcastle name would help or hurt. He punched the button and waited for the answer.

"This is Mark."

"Hey, kiddo." Hardcastle forced a calmness he suddenly didn't feel.

"Ju-" The relief almost made McCormick careless; he made a quick correction. "Just what took you so long?"

"Think I have nothing better to do than go looking around for missing ex-cons?"

McCormick grinned; he felt better already, though the realization surprised him. "Yeah, sorry to drag you away from your pressing engagements."

"Are you okay in there?" Hardcastle hadn't really intended to reveal his true concern, but there was no time to worry about that now.

"Better now," McCormick admitted.

The small smile was evident in the judge's tone when he replied, "So what's the plan? What can I do for you?"

"Make a couple of calls; find out some options for Brandon once this is over. He did an eighteen month stretch, been out for about eight months, but hasn't been able to get a job. No family, he's about to lose his apartment. You get the picture. He's done his time, Milt; he needs a break."

"Taking hostages in a supermarket hold-up isn't really the best way to ask for favors," Hardcastle pointed out.

"He was scared, Milt; desperate. I know what it's like. I've been there myself."

"And yet, no one has ended up at gunpoint talking to a negotiator on your behalf."

McCormick wasn't prepared for the tickle of pride that swept over him. But it occurred to him that might've been just about the nicest thing the judge had ever said to him. He was grinning when he replied, "No, but I did sorta kidnap the Coyote."

"Hah!" Hardcastle scoffed. "Now's probably not the best time to remind me of your past automotive exploits."

The grin faded. "Uh…about that-"

"Later," Hardcastle interrupted gruffly. "Right now we just need to get you out of there.

"Do we have a last name on this Brandon fellow so I can find out what we're dealing with?"

"Not yet. But do you think you can help?"

"I can make calls," Hardcastle answered, "it's too soon to know if those calls will help."

"Fair enough. Hang on." McCormick pulled the phone away from his ear and looked back at Brandon. "Milt's gonna see what he can find out and what he can do. He needs a last name."

Brandon was immediately suspicious. "Why? Either he can help me or he can't; my name shouldn't matter. Just tell him to find me a job. Or a place to live. Or something."

McCormick held the younger man's gaze, not backing down from the defiant glare. "You're too bright to believe that," he said calmly. "Your history has some bearing on what options are available to you now." He paused, then added, "You can trust me, Brandon. And I trust him."

A long moment passed before Brandon relented. "Collier."

McCormick smiled his thanks and then relayed the information to the judge. For his part,

Hardcastle accepted the information and never let on that he'd overheard the conversation. But he offered assurance just before breaking the connection. "We'll make this work, kiddo."


	10. Chapter 10

"Are you out of your mind?" Hardcastle bellowed. "You cannot be thinking about sending a team in there already."

Marsten didn't back down. "Of course we're thinking about it, Judge; that's what we do. It's been almost five hours already. The clock is working against us."

The judge sighed heavily. "I know that, but you've got to give me a little more time. I told you what I've found in his file; there is no way that kid should've gone to jail, and you need to give me some time to try and make this right."

"Nothing is going to undo what he's doing right now," Marsten pointed out.

"I know that, too, Deputy, but if you go busting in there, people are going to get hurt. McCormick says he's got things under control for right now, so there's no need for you to go rushing into something you can't control."

Marsten tried to be reassuring. "I know McCormick is a friend of yours-"

But Hardcastle didn't intend to listen. "He's not a friend of mine," he contradicted angrily, "he works for me and he's in my custody, so I'm supposed to make sure he's okay. You go blastin' in there, and it's a little harder to protect him." The judge didn't even take time to worry about whether anyone—including himself—believed the explanation. It was nobody's business but his own, anyway. "Besides," he continued gruffly, "I told ya; the D.A. is checking in to some stuff for me; they're on their way here now, and we're going to see what we can do. You just have to be patient long enough for us to make this work."

Marsten nodded reluctantly. "But not much longer, Judge. You heard the Eatmon lady say that kid's stretched pretty tight in there, and McCormick's not trained to handle this. You know as well as I do this whole thing could go bad real quick. We are gonna have to end this soon."

* * *

Having decided he was now more bored than scared, McCormick had grabbed a pack of playing cards off one of the impulse displays and resorted to playing poker with Greg while Brandon watched from a safe distance. The hostages were passing the time with quiet chatter when their captor finally spoke again.

"Are you sure this Milt guy can do anything for me?"

"I'm sure," McCormick answered, glancing up from his cards.

"What do you think he meant by 'irregularities in my case'?"

"I dunno. But he's pretty good at finding things that aren't like they should be." He looked at the other man speculatively. "There isn't anything else I should know about your record, is there?"

"Nope; pretty straight-forward." After a moment, Brandon continued thoughtfully, "But you said when I let the girls go that Milt would like that idea. Would it be even better if I let him go, too?" He gestured the gun lazily toward Greg.

McCormick forced himself not to appear too eager, and hoped that Greg would do the same. "I think that would be an excellent idea, Brandon. The more willing you are to cooperate with them, the more they'll cooperate with you." He waited a moment, then asked, "Should I call them?"

Brandon took a breath and nodded, and McCormick grabbed the phone.

"Marsten."

"Deputy, we've got one more guy coming out of here; alert your guys, okay? And, let Milt know this was Brandon's idea."

"So you're not coming out?"

"Nah, not yet; it'll be Greg, the store manager." He paused. "How are things coming out there?"

"Hardcastle's working some angle, but I gotta tell ya, McCormick, we've already got our plans laid out. We can't wait much longer."

McCormick swallowed hard. "Yeah. I got it. Just get ready for Greg. In just a minute, okay?"

He hung up the phone and began gathering the cards. "Too bad," he said with a small grin. "I probably coulda won back my whole tab."

The manager returned the grin. "I think I can cover your tab, Mark. Least I can do for the guy that kept my store off the evening news." They rose from the floor.

"Nah, you'll still make the news," McCormick replied easily, "we're just changing the caption." He turned his attention to Brandon. "Same as before?"

Collier hesitated. It had been simple to release the girls; he had kept the gun pointed at Greg's head while Mark opened the door for the others, instinctively understanding that McCormick wouldn't leave the other man to die. He was just realizing that this time he wouldn't have a hostage within easy reach.

As if reading his mind, McCormick said, "You've still got the gun, Brandon. I'm not gonna try anything."

With a nod, Collier answered, "I'm bettin' I could take you both out before the cops get me. Just something to think about."

McCormick didn't waste time arguing the merits of the unnecessary threat, but simply herded Greg toward the exit. He reached the door, flipped the lock, and pushed it open slowly. Seeing the officers in place, he gestured Greg outside.

"Good luck," the manager whispered on his way past. "And, thank you."

McCormick offered a hopeful grin, then pulled the door closed again, slipping the lock back in place. He turned slowly to cross back to the gunman. "Just you and me now, Brandon," he said affably and dropped back down to his designated spot.


	11. Chapter 11

"Don't you dare try to defend them!" Milton Hardcastle was towering over Gordon Levitt, who was sitting at one of the temporary tables, papers spread out in front of him.

"I'm not exactly defending them," Levitt sputtered, "I'm just saying drug convictions aren't a bad thing."

"Especially during an election year, right?" Hardcastle said derisively. He pounded the file folder on the table. "They threatened him with a charge they knew would never stick so he'd plead to the lesser felony, which—by the way—they would never have won, either. They knew they had to get a plea because a misdemeanor charge is all they could've won at trial. This kid should've gotten a slap on the wrist and instead he ended up in maximum security for a year and a half, while some creep with a lower profile charge got a deal he didn't deserve. How can that not be a bad thing?"

"Judge-"

"This whole thing reeks of misconduct," Hardcastle interrupted the attorney, "from both sides of the aisle. I am going to make a few phone calls and see what I can do about that, and then, Mr. Levitt, you and I are going to work out some reasonable solution to this current situation so those kids can come out of there and we can all go home." He turned to Marsten, who had been watching the exchange in stunned silence. "Deputy, I need another half hour."

The officer simply nodded, deciding there was no way he was putting himself on the receiving end of that kind of rage, then watched as the judge stomped away to start making his calls.

* * *

McCormick was leaned against a magazine display rack, trying to gauge the likelihood of successfully lunging across the small space to tackle Brandon without getting shot in the process. He decided the odds were pretty slim, so he stayed put.

"It's been a long time," Brandon said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Yeah," Mark agreed. Marsten had actually been fairly annoying with his frequent calls, preferring to talk every fifteen minutes or so, but never allowing more than half an hour to pass without a conversation. McCormick was pretty sure the tactic was designed to keep reminding Brandon just how trapped he was, but as the designated message boy, Mark hadn't been in love with the technique. But it had been over an hour since Greg had walked out the door, and that's the last contact they'd had with the outside world.

He closed his eyes and thought about the deputy's earlier words; _We can't wait much longer._ He spoke without opening his eyes. "You gotta start thinking about ending this, Brandon." He could almost see the gun stiffen as it pointed in his direction with renewed intensity, but he still didn't move. "They're gonna come in soon; they have to. The only way we survive the day is if you surrender."

"What about what you said?" Collier demanded. "What about your P.O.? You said he could help." The anger and desperation had returned instantly to the young man's voice.

McCormick finally opened his eyes, but maintained his casual posture. "I said he could help with _after_," he reminded the other. "I've told you from the beginning he couldn't fix this. You started a pretty unstoppable chain of events when you decided to point that gun at unarmed people. But you made it better by letting the others go, and you can make it better still by surrendering now. If they have to come in here, we're probably both going to die. But even if you live, you'll lose every bit of bargaining power you had." He looked at Collier intently. "Brandon. You can't win this. But you can minimize your losses." He sat up slowly and reached across the distance. "Give me the gun. Please."

For a moment, McCormick thought he might've actually convinced the man. But then he watched as Brandon pushed himself slightly further away, widening the gap between them, and then steadied the gun in both hands, pointing it directly at his prisoner's chest.

With a sigh, McCormick leaned his head back against the shelf and closed his eyes again.

* * *

The ringing phone startled them both. McCormick let it ring a second time, making sure Brandon's jumpiness wasn't going to end with gunfire, but the younger man motioned roughly at the phone. "Answer it."

McCormick picked up the phone off the floor. "Yeah."

"It's me, kiddo."

"I was getting worried." The honest sentiment slipped out before McCormick had time to think up something more appropriate.

The judge smiled grimly into the receiver. "It's almost over, kid. Turns out your friend in there got jerked around by the system just a bit."

"So we have more in common than I knew, huh?"

"Very funny. Anyway, they're gonna start an investigation into that, and the D.A. and I have worked out a deal for this, so you should be gettin' out of there anytime now. You want the details, or you want me to talk to him?"

McCormick looked across at Brandon, who had risen to his feet and begun pacing again.

"Brandon, it looks like they've worked something out. They have an offer to make. You want to talk now?"

Collier looked warily at the phone McCormick was offering, but he moved close enough to take it from his outstretched hand. "This is Brandon Collier."

"This is Milton Hardcastle. Look-"

"**_HARDCASTLE_**?"

McCormick winced at Brandon's shout; maybe this hadn't been the best time to let that cat out of the bag. Even so, he wasn't prepared for the foot that suddenly smashed into his ribcage, doubling him over, or the follow-up to his back that left him sprawled on the floor. "I can explain…" But his words were lost in Brandon's renewed ranting.

"You're a dead man, McCormick!" the gunman screamed, just before disconnecting the phone line.

* * *

For a split second, Hardcastle and Marsten simply stared at each other, both immediately expecting the worst. When the gunfire didn't begin, Marsten tore himself away from Hardcastle's anguished expression and began shouting orders to his men, preparing their assault.

Hardcastle watched for a second longer, then punched at the phone in his hand. "C'mon, kiddo," he pleaded into the receiver, "you gotta pick up."

* * *

For several agonizing seconds, McCormick was certain he was going to die. The gun pointed in his direction had gotten less steady as Brandon began shaking with a sudden fury, but he figured a guy laying on an open floor would be a pretty easy target.

When he realized he was still breathing, McCormick began trying to push himself to his feet. Collier saved him the trouble by grabbing his hair and yanking him to an upright position. At least he was off the floor, but the gun barrel resting heavily against his temple hadn't been part of Mark's plan.

"You've been lying to me, man. You're setting me up. Hardcastle ain't no P.O.; he's a judge. Everyone knows that."

The phone was ringing, but Brandon ignored it. "A _judge_!" he shouted.

"We need to answer that phone," McCormick said as calmly as possible. When he didn't receive an immediate reply, he continued. "Yeah, Hardcastle is a judge; so what? He's still my P.O. And he's still the best chance you've got of getting out of this thing." He tried not to struggle, recognizing that Collier would likely not hesitate to blow his brains all over the store.

"Brandon, listen to me. Hardcastle sent me up once, and he could've done it a second time. Hell, for all I know he's waiting out there right now to start working on number three. But if that man says he's got a deal, then you need to listen to him. He sent me to prison, Brandon, but I still trust him to get me out of this. You can, too." McCormick took a breath. "But right now you need to let me answer that phone. If they don't talk to us soon, they _will_ come inside. Are you willing to die now, when it's so close to being over?"

After what seemed a lifetime, Collier finally shoved McCormick away, putting distance between them again. "Answer it," he growled, still pointing the gun.

McCormick walked painfully to where Brandon had thrown the receiver, and gingerly bent to retrieve it. "McCormick."

"God, kid, are you okay?" Hardcastle didn't even try to hide his concern this time.

"I'm okay, Judge, but next time you need to try and remember that you don't have the best reputation in my circle of friends, okay? And if you've got a deal for Brandon, this would be a really good time to lay it out there."

McCormick listened silently for several minutes while Hardcastle laid out the details, his hope growing with each word. He was smiling when the judge finished. "Okay, I'll let him know. And, Judge? This is great; thanks."

He hung up the phone and found Brandon looking at him expectantly, but the gun hadn't wavered. "Well?"

"First, it looks like you were right about your conviction; should never have gone down like it did. Hardcastle says it looks like some kind of misconduct going on with the prosecutor and your P.D.; seems they might've done some illegal wrangling on your case, and they're both going to be investigated. In the meantime, it seems clear cut enough that the judge got with some other judge friend of his and worked out something he called a relief from judgment."

"What's that about?" Brandon asked.

McCormick shook his head. "A bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo, but it boils down to it makes your conviction disappear. The D.A. still has the right to file appropriate charges if they see fit, but Hardcastle doesn't seem to think they will." He grinned. "I don't think he really gave them a whole lot of choice about that."

Brandon didn't seem too happy just yet. "What about today?"

McCormick took a breath. "I told you, he can't make this go away. But, they've worked out a deal on charges and sentencing recommendations. The robbery's got a minimum two year sentence. They've agreed to reduce the hostage charge to false imprisonment, and only file one count; that's a year. They're gonna allow the sentences to run concurrently."

Brandon was beginning to look like a man waking from a really bad dream. "Only two years?" he whispered. "For all of this?"

McCormick grinned again. "You haven't heard the best part. They're giving you credit for time served. You're only looking at six months; they'll probably just stick you in County. It'll be a piece of cake, Brandon." He watched as relief washed over the younger man, then continued. "There are some conditions, of course."

Brandon looked up sharply. "Shoulda known. What?"

"Gag order," McCormick explained. "No one ever gets to know that they were negotiating with an armed felon, regardless of the circumstances."

Brandon's eyes widened in surprise. "Seems reasonable. What else?"

"Hardcastle's gonna hook you up with some kind of group that finds work for ex-cons; he says you gotta keep steady employment."

Collier almost smiled. "Fair enough. That it?"

"Only one more thing. This is a very limited time opportunity; we gotta be out of here in the next five minutes." He looked across at his captor. "So what's it gonna be?"

Brandon finally let the grin fill his face as he crossed to McCormick and handed him the gun. "Call them."


	12. Chapter 12

McCormick looked over at Brandon for a last confirmation. "You ready?" Brandon nodded once, rigidly, and McCormick completely understood the fear. He smiled reassuringly. "It's doable, Brandon. Just hang in there with me, okay?"

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Let's do this thing before I change my mind."

McCormick opened the door slowly. "We're coming out now!" he shouted. "Me first." He stepped carefully outside, then stopped after two steps, just barely outside the door, scanning the crowd. Brandon was trusting him to get him through this alive.

He was surprised by the gathering dusk—hadn't it been broad daylight when he stepped inside these doors? His eyes were still roaming the faces of those waiting and watching. Where was the judge? He would've felt better if he could see Hardcastle somewhere, but he knew he couldn't wait. With one last look to make sure no one seemed too trigger happy, he motioned toward the store, and Brandon took a slow, tentative step out into the open, hands raised, no threat.

Suddenly, they were in a flurry of movement; he was shoved roughly aside, and then McCormick was watching as Brandon was led away to the waiting throngs of officers. He actually felt bad for the kid.

"Hey, McCormick."

He turned with a small smile at the sound of the voice. "You must be Deputy Marsten."

"Yep. You did good in there." He paused. "Makes me kinda sorry I have to do this." He pulled out the handcuffs and stepped toward McCormick.

"Oh, gimme a break. You have _got_ to be kidding me." But the firm hands that spun him around and started an immediate pat-down made it clear that Marsten was not kidding. "I left the gun inside," he mumbled, but Marsten completed his search anyway. "Deputy…this is insane. I was just doin' your job in there, you know."

"Then let me do it out here."

McCormick felt the steel lock around one wrist. A_ll I wanted was a nice, quiet day in bed..._ "Wait. Where's Hardcastle?"

Almost magically, a familiar voice answered. "Right here, kiddo. You addin' resisting arrest to your list of today's accomplishments?" Hardcastle figured that wasn't a bad opening gambit,and it was much safer than 'Thank God you're all right.'

McCormick fought the urge to whirl around and face the judge. Instead he allowed his hands to be cuffed, then turned slowly, intending to tell the old guy just what he could do with his charges, including resisting arrest. But…

"What're you grinnin' at, McCormick?" Hardcastle demanded.

"I'm not sure," the young man answered truthfully. "I just never thought I'd be glad to see you, Hardcase."

The judge tried not to grin in return, though his almost overwhelming relief at seeing the young man in one piece was making that difficult. "Hmpff! You're just trying to get out of those cuffs."

"Well, _yeah_," McCormick admitted, as if that should be expected. He paused, then added, "But not entirely."

Unable to completely contain his amusement, Hardcastle shook his head, then spoke to the Deputy. "Okay, I'll take responsibility for him, Marsten; why don't you let me have him?" The deputy was about to object, but the judge wasn't really asking. "He's in my stay; I'll make sure he gets where he needs to be."

"Ah, what the hell," Marsten answered as he began to remove the cuffs. "I didn't really wanna have to explain to the press why I was arresting the hero of the hour, anyway." He clapped McCormick on the shoulder. "Thanks. You saved us a lot of paperwork today." And then he was gone.

McCormick folded his arms across his chest and turned his attention back to Hardcastle. Their eyes met, and they stood silently for several long moments, evaluating. Mark seemed to know instinctively that he could not out-wait the judge, he would have to make the first move; he just needed to figure it out first. Finally, he felt ready to force out an explanation. "Okay- "

"Mark!" McCormick and Hardcastle both turned to face the calling voice. Hurrying across the parking lot were Greg and Connie, and Lucy was trotting along beside them, a grin on her face. McCormick thought this conversation should be easier, but he was cut off before he could even begin as he suddenly felt arms circle around his neck, and all he could hear was Connie's soft, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He was blushing slightly when she pulled away from him. "You're very welcome."

Greg stepped forward, offering a paper sack. "I gathered up your cold medicine, and got you some fresh juice."

McCormick grinned as he accepted the bag. "Thanks. Having a gun pointed at you for a few hours sorta takes the edge off the head cold, but I'm sure I'll be wanting this stuff by the time I get home." He pretended not to hear Hardcastle's softly muttered, "_If_ you get home."

A tugging on his shirt hem pulled McCormick's attention downward. He smiled, "Hey, Lucy."

"I'm glad that bad man didn't hurt you," the little girl answered as she looked up at him.

McCormick felt his eyes stinging as he handed off the grocery sack to the judge, and then squatted down to meet Lucy face to face. "Lucy…I think that might be the nicest thing anybody ever said to me." He reached out and gave her a quick hug.

"Why did he want to hurt us?" she continued.

McCormick hesitated, then answered honestly. "I don't think he did, honey. I think he was scared…so scared he made a really big mistake." He looked at the child intently. "You ever do anything wrong, Lucy?"

Looking sad, the little girl nodded her head slowly.

"And then you feel bad about it, right?" Another nod. "But no matter how bad you feel about it, you can't change it, right?"

"Right," she said in a small voice.

"Well, I think that's what happened with Brandon. He got scared, and did something wrong. But I think he feels really bad about it. And I don't think he ever intended to hurt us." He gave her another hug. "And I know he won't do it again," he promised.

She was smiling when she pulled away from him. "Okay."

Connie was watching with a small smile of her own; Mark had helped in so many ways today. "Well," she began, "we're gonna let you get back to…whatever you need to do." She glanced at Hardcastle—who was silently watching the exchange, clearly assessing McCormick—then back at the younger man. "You'll be okay?" she asked, the concern evident in her tone.

McCormick grinned slightly. Was there anybody Hardcastle didn't scare? "Yeah, it's fine. I'm glad you guys hung around."

Greg extended his hand. "Thank you. I'm not sure what might've happened if you hadn't been in the store today, but I definitely don't think it would've ended nearly so well."

"Glad to help," McCormick answered sincerely. He shook the manager's hand, gave Connie and Lucy one more hug, then watched them wander back across the parking lot.

"So was that little speech for me?" Hardcastle asked, snapping him back to reality.

"Huh?" McCormick swiveled slowly, trying to decipher what the hell Hardcastle was talking about now.

"All that stuff you said to the little girl," the judge prodded.

"Oh, that. Nah, no speeches for you, Judge." He allowed his eyes to meet the older blues. "The only thing for you is an apology. It was a stupid mistake, Judge, and I'm sorry. I'll understand if you want me to go."

"Go?" Hardcastle repeated. "You make it sound like a simple thing, McCormick. What if what I want is for you to go back to Quentin?"

Hardcastle tried to read McCormick's expression, and decided he'd never seen such an odd mixture of humor and disdain. _Humor? Didn't I just threaten to lock him back up? _This kid was definitely full of surprises.

"Don't let this go to your head, or anything, Hardcase," McCormick was saying, "but I think I've about decided you aren't quite the jack-ass I thought for the last couple of years. Not even you would put me back inside for this."

The judge was startled by the accuracy of the assessment, but he issued a challenge anyway. "You seem pretty sure about that."

"Yep," McCormick answered lightly. His tone turned serious quickly. "But I'm not so sure how easily you can let this go. So if there's something I need to do…or if you want to call this off…"

More surprises. No excuses, no pleas for understanding, or one more chance. Just an apology and a willingness to accept consequences. Unbelievable. After a moment, Hardcastle spoke. "Do you have the keys, or did you hotwire it?"

McCormick reached wordlessly into his pocket and tossed the keys to the judge. More seconds passed before the jurist could force the words from his throat.

"I thought you took the car and ran."

McCormick's head jerked up sharply. "What? I knew you'd be mad about me takin' the car, Judge, but, jeez, I never thought you'd think I _took_ the car. What'd I ever do to make you think I would do that?"

Hardcastle ignored the tinge of hurt in the younger man's voice and answered dryly, "You mean, other than the joyriding, the repossessing, the Porsche, and the Coyote?"

McCormick wasn't amused by the litany. "I meant, what did I ever do to _you_, Hardcastle?"

"You? Nothing. Yet."

Understanding dawned in McCormick's eyes, and with it, a flash of anger. "So that's it?" he demanded. "It's not enough that I've got my own past—the joyriding, the repossessing, and the Porsche and the Coyote—I mean, besides all that, I take the heat for who knows how many cons who've done who knows what to you before? I pay the price for that?" McCormick had the idea that his raised voice was drawing some attention from the surrounding police officers, but he barely had time to register Hardcastle's reassuring gesture in their direction before he continued his tirade. "Are you actually telling me that besides proving myself to you _every single day_, I've gotta make up for them, too? Is that the deal?"

There was no hesitation, and no apology. "Yes."

With all of his might, McCormick wanted to find Hardcastle's attitude unreasonable and unfair, but the simple response was so unexpected, his anger evaporated instantly. Besides, he knew that if the positions were reversed—_Hah! That's a stretch!_—he would feel the same. He shrugged and gave the only answer possible. "Okay."

Hardcastle stared for a full minute, leaving McCormick to wonder if he had somehow said the wrong thing. Finally, the judge spoke. "Okay? That's it?"

McCormick shrugged again. "Is there something I could say to change your mind?" he asked reasonably.

"No." _Except, maybe, 'okay'._

The young man nodded his acceptance. "Then, okay."

Not really having a response, Hardcastle settled for, "C'mon; I'll drive you home. You look like you could use some rest."

McCormick followed without comment, sensing the judge had more on his mind, but unwilling to push.

They made the short drive back to Gull's Way in continued silence, and McCormick opened his door as soon as the Corvette pulled to a stop.

"McCormick?"

The young man continued his exit from the car and closed the door behind him before he turned to face Hardcastle's voice.

The judge had also exited the car, and now looked across intently at his young charge. "Why just okay?"

McCormick paused before answering the inevitable question. He'd come up with one or two possible responses in the last few minutes, but he still wasn't sure he'd really worked it out himself. He decided to try misdirection.

"You know, Hardcase, I can't win with you. If I don't agree with you, you're all over me with who's in charge and judicial stay garbage. But if I do agree, it still doesn't get any better. I mean- "

"McCormick."

Mark stopped his rambling at the judge's interruption. Well timed, really; he'd been running out of things to say. But now Hardcastle was waiting for an actual response. He sighed slightly, and offered the only answer that seemed to fit.

"The way I see it, there was probably a time when even Tonto was just another Indian." He gave a small, wry grin. "It takes a long time to become the faithful and trusted sidekick."

Hardcastle felt a smile cross his face as he relaxed for the first time that day. Figuring out all the differences of this one would be fun. He met McCormick's gaze and let his eyes show the relief. "Yeah. But maybe not _too_ long."


End file.
